


eat, prey...

by fishlette



Category: The Tudors
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:31:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishlette/pseuds/fishlette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry VIII is a reluctant food critic and Francis I and Charles V are chefs trying to sway his vote.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Roses. There are roses on his desk and a bottle of supreme vintage and if he didn’t know any better he would say that Francis was try to seduce him. To be fair though he _was_ , kind of.

 _‘Enjoy mon ami.’_ Elegant script draping luxuriously across the note card; Henry could almost see Francis winking in his mind’s eye.

“Crom!”  He calls and instantly his secretary is at his side complete with a clipboard in his hand and a pen tucked behind his ear. Henry gestures to his desk, eyebrow raised.

“Oh yes!” Cromwell nods, “I forgot to mention, Mr. Valois came by while you were out to lunch.  Dropped that off for your ‘ten year anniversary’ he said.” Quotations clearly visible, the corner of Crom’s mouth twitches and Henry narrows his eyes. “Of your friendship,” Cromwell adds quickly, “Ten year anniversary of your friendship.”

Henry heaves a sigh and waves his hand to dismiss the man. Lunch with Catherine and her nephew had already dampened his mood and returning to find his office saturated with French cologne was not helping at all. He blamed Anne.

Anne Boleyn, senior editor of the fine dining department at the publishing company where they were employed, had accepted an invitation to judge the annual ‘Best of London’ competition that pitted the city’s gourmet restaurants against each other. But of course, she decides to flake last minute because, _‘Edward got a week off work!’_ and, _‘They have the competition every year, my fiancé only gets so much vacation time,’_ so, _‘We’re going to Paris!’_

And thus Henry was left with Anne’s workload. _‘But I’m in charge of home and lifestyle, that’s nowhere close to fine dining!’_ he had protested. _‘Close enough.’_ His boss had replied, end of discussion. Damn Wolsey. Damn Anne. Damn Edward Seymour.

When Francis found out that Henry had taken over the judging he had been over the moon. _‘I shall design a menu especially for you.’_ Playing the friend card with not even a hint of shame. Catherine was worse though, all passive aggressive and _‘I thought you said Spanish food was your favorite.’_ His wife had even invited her nephew Charles, the head chef of their family run five star authentic Spanish restaurant, to stay with them for the duration of the contest.

The ringing of his phone is obscenely loud through his brain crippling headache and he considers hurling it through the window until he sees Wolsey stroll by his open door. “Hello?” he answers, playing perfect employee.

“Bonjour, mon ami,” Francis chirps brightly on the other end, “Do you like my gift?”

Henry winces, glances up, Wolsey’s still there chatting with Cromwell, “It’s very…nice. How thoughtful of you.” He says lamely. He swears he can feel Francis beaming rays of sunshine through the phone.

“I do cherish our friendship very much. So about the competition…” No shame, no shame at all.

(-)

“…and they just keep badgering me, Janie are you even listening?” Jane Seymour assistant junior editor of the fine dining department nods placatingly while she taps out a text message on her phone, having long abandoned any efforts of keeping up with Henry’s complaints. He huffs in annoyance, arms crossed, “This is your fault you know.”

“My fault? How is it my fault?” cue another round of Henry-logic.

“If you hadn’t decided to play cupid and set your brother up with Anne, I wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“Seriously?” incredulously raised eyebrows, “Seriously that’s your reason?”

“Now, now children settle down.” Charles Brandon steps into the conference room, thrusting a coffee, each, under their noses. Henry grabs the steaming mug and presses it against his temple, “I still don’t understand why you can’t do the judging.” He glares at Jane.

“For the millionth time, ‘senior editor’ looks a lot prettier than ‘assistant junior editor’ in photo captions.” She throws her hands up, thoroughly exasperated.

“But I…”

“Don’t do fine dining. We know Henry, we know.” Brandon says, mixing an unhealthy amount of sugar into his coffee. Henry slumps in his chair sulkily. “What are you complaining about anyway?” Brandon asks, taking a sip of the sugar charged monstrosity in his mug, “You get a week of free five star restaurant dinners.”

“What do I have to complain about?” Henry puffs up.

“Oh dear lord…” Jane face-palms.

(-)

He peeks behind the door, eyes scanning the empty parking lot before rushing to his car.

“Henry!” _God, no._ Francis is behind him toting a large picnic basket. He raises it and wiggles his head in that smarmy French way of his, “The second part of my gift to you.” He says voice low and husky. _Oh God is that his bedroom voice?_

“Henry!” Brandon. Lovely, lovely Charles Brandon with his sugar addiction could smell confectionery from miles away. “Hey Francis.” He greets the Frenchman with a heavy slap on the back, “Do I smell chocolate?”

Francis flinches, annoyed, “Chocolate covered strawberries,” he says, “a gift for Henry.” Who couldn’t help but cringe, just a bit.

“Sounds delicious,” Brandon smiles blithely, “mind if I try one?”

“Help yourself.” Henry says before Francis can protest, he’s already got a leg in his car, “I have to go, I’m late.” He speeds away leaving a very put out Francis and a chocolate smeared Brandon in the parking lot.

(-)

He’s just crossed the threshold and prepared to relax when he catches the smell of smoke in his house. Panicking, he’s panicking and suffering a minor heart attack and about to call the fire department when a flour coated Mary bounces into the living room.

“Daddy! Daddy!” She tugs at his suit jacket, leaving dusty white fingerprints. “Cousin Charlie’s teaching me how to make _coca_!”

“Just a little burnt,” Charlie says, carrying the dish to the table, “Come try some Uncle Henry.”

His phone vibrates madly in his breast pocket and Henry almost screams when he sees the caller id, _Francis_ , instead he does what any proper gentleman would do in a situation like this. Henry fainted.


	2. Chapter 2

“I don’t care if he’s serenading you in a gondola on the Seine please come back!” Henry pleads helplessly, crouched in a corner of the hat closet, hiding in his own house because _Cousin Charlie_ just taught Mary how to make hornazos, the kitchen table was stacked with burnt meat pies and he’d be damned if he let them stuff him with any of it.

“I’ve only been gone for three days Henry, stop being such a drama queen.”

“I’m not being a drama queen!”

Shuffling, giggling, and fabric rustling on the other end, “Goodnight Henry.” Edward growls into the receiver.

He hung up. Edward mother flipping Seymour hung up on him. Henry angrily punches the numbers on his phone.

“Hello?”

“Janie, I hate your brother.”

(-)

“These are amazing.” Brandon munches happily on macarons, ignoring Henry’s pout.

“He’s right,” Cromwell says, licking his fingers, “it’s like an orgy on my tongue.”

“No, no, no, no!” Henry slams his hands on the table, “ _Francis_ and _orgy_ should never be mentioned in the same sentence!”

“But I wasn’t talking about…”

“You were talking about his macarons!”

A moment of silence, and then, “You know,” Crom says voice hushed conspicuously, “no one said you had to pick a winner between those two.”

Henry lifts his head, eyes glazed, “What?” he asks, his mind too exhausted to process the words.

“There are five other restaurants, pick from one of those.”

“You!” Henry leaps to his feet and drags Crom into his arms, “You are an angel” he says, presses a kiss on to his forehead then promptly drops the man and walks out of the room. Brandon watches, eyes wide, mouth agape as Cromwell picks himself off the floor and dusts his pants off.

“I’m an angel.” He says smugly and follows his boss out the door.

(-)

Make that four more restaurants. The German chef was nice sure, but she also fed him every type of sausage they made. Henry shudders and mentally crosses the German establishment off the list. He approached the next location warily, the Irish pub certainly was not lacking in atmosphere, he could hear the fiddle music from across the street.

Henry relaxes and lets out a deep breath, he was going to go inside order a whiskey and have a nice dinner, no Francis, no Charlie…

“Charlie!” said nephew was perched on a barstool, a look of distaste painted on his face.

“Uncle Henry!” He waves enthusiastically, eyes lighting when he sees Henry approach.

“What are you doing here?” Henry asks, almost afraid.

 “Aunt Cata said you were coming here for the contest,” Charlie wrinkles his nose, “no doubt there will be alcohol so I am here to be your designated driver.” He says sincerely.

“Oh,” Henry says dumbly, “oh.” How could he have misjudged his sweet, sweet nephew, “Why don’t you come sit with me, we can have dinner together.” Charlie flashes a bright smile and they move to sit in a corner booth.

And then everything goes downhill as his evil, diabolical nephew quizzes their server relentlessly about the menu.

“I know they’re potatoes but what do they mean?” he calls as the girl runs out in tears. Less than a minute later they were standing outside, Henry having tasted nothing but his bleeding lip (turns out the waitress’ boyfriend is boxer).

Three more restaurants.

(-)

“No Henry I am not cutting my vacation short, there are only two more days anyway,” Anne sighs and turns pleading eyes to Edward, who grabs the phone, “Get back to work Tudor.” He says, end call.

“Now my darling,” taking Anne’s hand in his, he leads her on to the boat, “we ride the Seine.”

Back in his office in London, Henry bashes his head on his desk. Damn Edward Seymour.

(-)

He’s going to kill him. He’s going to kill George Boleyn on the spot if the man doesn’t shut up.

“It’s kind of romantic I think,” oblivious George twirls his oblivious hands as he explains, “like Romeo and Juliet, except your Charlie’s uncle-in-law and instead of climbing your balcony he sent you an apology cake.”

“So nothing like Romeo and Juliet?” Jane asks, eyes glued to her phone.

“Well he did write a poem in the frosting,” Brandon grins around a mouthful of cake, “are you sure you don’t want any? It’s really good.” He pushes the plate to Henry who nearly gags.

“No,” he says, “and I hate you all.”

(-)

He knew Catherine would be angry with him for kicking Charlie out, but he didn’t expect her to move back with her parents for a week and he definitely didn’t expect her to leave him with Mary, on a school night.

“Daddy I’m hungry.” She whines, tugging on his pant leg.

“Just a minute sweetheart,” running through a list of contacts to find a suitable babysitter was hard. “It takes him about thirty seconds before he gives up, “Would you like to come to work with daddy?” he asks, crouching in front of her. Mary tilts her head in consideration, “Will there be ice cream?”

An hour later father and daughter are seated at a table in restaurant number five. Henry leans back in his chair and watches Mary poke her ice cream, finally a nice quiet dinner with his daughter. This is it, this is the restaurant…

Coughing, Mary is coughing and choking and clawing at her throat. _Oh God, oh God._ Before he knows what he’s doing Henry’s performing the Heimlich manoeuvre and the servers are running around and yelling and someone has called an ambulance.

Mary is crying and gasping for air in his arms, someone else’s engagement ring rests neatly on the table.

Two more restaurants.

(-)

“I heard about the accident,” Francis is standing at the door, a grin on his face, a gleam in his eye, “I brought comfort food.”

“No!” a shout from the driveway, “You can’t be here! Go away!” Charlie storms towards them, arms full of comfort pies. Francis sniffs and turns his face away, “This is Henry’s house not yours.”

“Tell him to leave Uncle Henry!” Charlie demands, stomping his foot.

“Last I heard you were the one he threw out.” Francis grouses.

They turn to him expressions indignant, “Henry…” they start in unison, then glare at each other.

“Daddy!” Mary’s high pitched cry from upstairs.

Henry takes a moment to calm himself, smiles beatifically and slams the door.


	3. Chapter 3

No more restaurants, Henry decides. He’s literally physically incapable of eating at restaurants anymore.

“What are you going to do about the contest?” Crom asks.

“I’ll pick a name out of a hat,” Henry says, “offer a few words of generic praise, smile and present the plaque.”

“Not a bad plan.” Brandon nods and chews on licorice. “Now you’ve just got to avoid Francis and Charlie for one more day until the presentation.”

“Kind of hard when they’re camped out in the parking lot.” Jane takes a sip of coffee, then returns to her phone.

“How romantic,” George sighs, twisting his pen.

“You’re all idiots.”

(-)

He miraculously survives the rest of the day without being attacked by any chefs. Henry’s secret to success: hiding in his office and refusing to take any calls. He even steals Cromwell’s sandwich instead of going out for lunch as usual, to save himself from a trip to the parking lot. Crom wasn’t very happy about that.

“That sandwich was special!”

And it was. Made with the tender fondness of a doting mother, with a splash of care and a pinch of love, to taste, it was definitely the best thing Henry had eaten all week. With a full stomach and a good mood, Henry blissfully forgets that Crom has always been a little bit vindictive.

(-)

He probably should have expected some sort of revenge plot, but really now, this was a bit a much.

Crom had offered to teach him how to bus home so he could avoid the two lunatics who had surrounded his car, because Henry Tudor, privileged upper-class child to the extreme, never learned how to use public transit. Then the sneaky bastard quietly slipped away the moment his head was turned and left him, alone and helpless, on the bus, not knowing where he was supposed to stop. Normally this would be when he asked for help, but fuelled by equal parts pride and shame, Henry stayed on the bus until the very last stop. Now he stands confused and very, very stranded at an empty bus terminal.

 _He’s going to die. He’ll never make it home and he’ll die, cold and alone on a dirty bench._ Henry is huddled on said bench and prepared to accept his ‘imminent death’ when he feels his heretofore neglected mobile vibrate in his pocket.

“Catherine!” he cries in relief. Never in his life has he been this happy to hear his wife swear at him in Spanish.

“Where are you?” she asks with barely concealed anger, and he imagines her, all sharp teeth and furrowed brows with smoke pouring out of her ears and maybe he’ll just spend the night here after all.

A rustling sound far off in the darkness changes his mind.

Many vaguely given directions and countless Spanish swear words later, Henry is hunched in the passenger seat of Catherine’s tiny car (almost tearfully) recounting the day’s events.

“…and he just left me on the bus!”

Catherine says nothing until they are home. The minute they’re inside she calls Anne on speaker phone.

“You’re right he’s such a drama queen.”

“Am not!”

(-)

Mary’s in the kitchen, bent over a large mixing bowl when he finds her.

“Mummy and I were making cookies before she had to go pick you up.” She says, violently whisking the mixture with a wooden spoon. “Want to try some?” she asks, shoving the spoon in his mouth before he has the chance to respond.

“Mary,” Henry forcefully swallows the strangely bitter cookie dough, “why is the cookie dough green?”

“Green is my favorite colour.” She says, “I wanted the cookies to be green, so I added that.” Mary points to the bottle of green drain cleaner next to the sink.

“Catherine!”

(-)

He wakes up a day later to find himself in a hospital bed. His stomach had been pumped twice and he missed the ‘Best of London’ awards presentation.

“This is all your fault.” He says to Cromwell who just informed him that Wolsey stepped in last minute to present the first place award to the German chef.

“How is it my fault that your daughter fed you toxic cookie dough?”

“It just is.”

The door bursts open and a giant bouquet of flowers walk in, well, Francis carrying a giant bouquet of flowers walks in.

“Ma pauvre chérie,” he coos, “you must have been terrified!”

“Francis, I…”

“No, don’t speak.” Francis silences him with a finger on his lips, “Let Francis take care of you.”

“Get out frenchie.” Charlie comes in with an equally large if not larger bouquet in his arms. “I’ll take care of him.”

“He’s my friend.”

“He’s my uncle.”

“He was my friend before he was your uncle!”

“He doesn’t even like you!”

“Liar!”

“What the hell is going on in here?” Anne stands in the doorway, gift basket in hand, fresh from her trip to Paris and glowing. She steps in and deposits the basket on the bedside table. “It’s a gift from the ‘Best of London’ Committee,” she says examining the fabulous assortment of Belgian chocolates.

“Brandon would love this.” Crom comments, snatching up the largest one. _White chocolate and coconut shavings, delicious._

“Yeah anyways,” Anne turns to Henry, “they feel very sorry that you had to miss the presentation. _‘A right shame.’_ The chairman said. So guess who’s judging next year’s contest?” It’s not a question. Anne’s smiling and he can see the twisted delight in her eyes.

“Oh no…”

“Oh yes!” Francis cheers, “I shall have a cocktail named after you! A dessert! An appetiser! Everything!”

“I shall name my firstborn after you!” Charlie yells

“Fuck my life.”

_Fin._


End file.
